


A Suit for a Heartbeat

by 12AngelOfDarkness21



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Blood Drinking, Flashbacks, Non-Consensual Blood Drinking, Torture, Vampire Tony Stark, Violence, mentions of torture, technically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-06 19:33:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18857671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/12AngelOfDarkness21/pseuds/12AngelOfDarkness21
Summary: Back in Afghanistan, with Tony's chest cut open and his screams echoing off rock, the Ten Rings decided to do whatever they had to, to make sure their prize survived.





	A Suit for a Heartbeat

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! I know, me posting?? Hell must be freezing over, or something.
> 
> Just a short piece for a roleplay, and I decided I liked it enough to upload.
> 
> Let me know what you think! <3

The dull thud of the bass rattled his chest, the fake throb of a heartbeat that would never belong to him.

 

Not anymore.

 

Lights flared, smoke billowed, and silhouettes writhed, people drunk, high and horny. 

 

From his perch at the bar, Tony saw all. Saw the womens eyes that couldn’t help but land on him, saw the jealous glances of men that doubled back when he was spotted. It was something they couldn’t control any more than he could. 

 

Not since Afghanistan.

 

Years ago, before the Mandarin, before the aliens, before he’d had to strap a nuke to his back and fly into space. 

 

\--

 

Years ago, he was kidnapped while on a routine weapons demonstration.

 

Shrapnel had pierced his chest, had torn through flesh and muscle, crawled towards his heart as it had fluttered with fear. Blood had splashed across tongue as dust and sand sprayed across his face, and he had, for a single, solitary moment, thought that this would be his end.

 

He was wrong.

 

Instead, he’d been filmed, jeered at, and strutted around like a prize, until he had nearly collapsed, and they had been forced to save him.

 

He’d flatlined on that piece of rock twice. He had screamed and writhed, no pain killers to placate him as they’d cut open his chest, removed bone and muscle and replaced it with metal and heat and _fire_.

 

\--

 

The change had been slow and gradual. He thought he had just been healing normally, despite being tortured every other day.

 

And yet, day by day, week by week, he had grown stronger. Had been able to stand sooner, walk easier, _breathe_ easier despite the mass of metal that now sat snugly in his sternum.

 

The torture got easier. The fire that trickled in his veins slowed. The pain dripped away, until he’d bolted upright in bed, a suit of armour having slammed into his mind, hooked itself in.

 

No one told him he’d have to exchange his heartbeat for his suit.

 

Nevertheless, he had built it, had conversed quietly with Yinsen, had tried to make sense of the new urges and needs and instincts that were screaming at him from within his mind.

 

He had eventually learned of the serum they had pumped into him. Too precious to die, too unwanted for precious treatment. They had given him whatever they had on hand and wished for the best.

 

He had no idea what he was, but when he got Yinsen and himself out of this hell hole, he was going to find out.

 

\--

 

Yinsen didn’t make it.

 

\--

 

With Yinsen’s blood on his hands and the stench of death in his nose, he had blown the place sky high. Had been picked up, near blind due to the sun bearing down on him.

 

Finally home and recovered, he had fled, scrambling back to his workshop, his haven. His workshop was safe, was sacred, somewhere he could hide and lick his wounds. 

 

With a frenzy borne of death, blood and desperation, the iron man suit had been born, and he had finally found out his fate.

 

_Vampire_.

 

\----

 

He was shaken from his reverie by the blonde coming to sit beside him. She was smiling coyly, hand pressed to the warmth of his thigh, and he let the smirk bloom on his face, teeth too sharp and eyes hidden safely behind designer shades.

 

It was easy to be a vampire in Los Angeles, a city of sex and drugs and rock and roll. He could take what he wanted and move on, a never ending stream of people that would sit themselves in his lap, that would unknowingly bleed for him.

 

It was a heady feeling, this power over people, though he had tried _so hard_ not to let it get to his head.

 

The buzz in his mind as he lounged back and watched as she climbed into his lap told him that he had failed. 

 

Hands dragged across skin, nimble fingers plucking at skin tight clothing, as his lips pressed to the smooth skin of her jaw. She moaned, breathy and eager, and the chuckle that rattled his chest was dark and smooth, a song and dance he had long perfected.

 

He let her pluck his shades from his nose, let their gazes meet. Her expression faltered for a split second, vibrant crimson meeting sky blue.

 

His tongue dragged across his upper lip, curled around his fangs, and he leaned in till their noses brushed and they shared their next inhale. She was enraptured, curling towards him as he pulled her in, hands unmoving as he shifted them so they were ever closer.

 

Chest to chest, groin to groin, she started to rock, earlier desperation returned, her mind hazy with lust and his power. She would remember him, of course. Would remember their kisses, their dance of lust. Would remember pleasure, fond smile in place as fingers danced across a vivid hickey.

 

She wouldn’t remember the sting as he bit her. Wouldn’t remember her high moan of pain and pleasure as he drank from her. Wouldn’t remember begging for more, delicate hands threaded through dark hair, tugging him ever closer. 

 

Her blood was mediocre, the same as her body and her face. But he had drunk greedily regardless, grip bruising and hips rutting upwards into her.

 

She had moaned and writhed, he had snarled and swallowed.

 

When he had drunk his fill, he lay her head against his shoulder, soothing her down from her orgasm, the gift he gave in return for what he took. She shuddered weakly, and he cleaned her neck of blood, slipping his shades back on, hairs on the back of his neck rising, the uneasy feeling of being _watched_ by something powerful.

 

He would watch over her, until she could return to her feet. Alcoholic beverage in one hand, face impassive, he was like any other patron of the bar.

 

When the time came, he slipped away. Disappearing through crowds and out onto the street of an alleyway, he returned to the shadows that now felt like a second skin.


End file.
